


never let go

by zeldalookslonely



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-06-29 21:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19839244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldalookslonely/pseuds/zeldalookslonely
Summary: Crowley kept a dog, once.  Long ago.  He’d named her God, officially, in a show of blasphemy he’s always felt turned out to be unintentionally complimentary heavenward.  God was three years old and well over one hundred pounds when Crowley found her.  She lived another nine years after that.  Not bad for a dog that size.She may as well have been a mayfly.  May as well have been a sneeze, a blink, the instant between a scraped knee and a child’s cry.  The split second betweenlost it already?andgave it away!, the moment betweenIandwe.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley kept a dog, once. Long ago. He’d named her God, officially, in a show of blasphemy he’s always felt turned out to be unintentionally complimentary heavenward. God was three years old and well over one hundred pounds when Crowley found her. She lived another nine years after that. Not bad for a dog that size. 

She may as well have been a mayfly. May as well have been a sneeze, a blink, the instant between a scraped knee and a child’s cry. The split second between _lost it already?_ and _gave it away!_ , the moment between _I_ and _we_.

God, the hundred pound lapdog. The spotted beast who loved to lie in the dappled sunlight with Crowley, sometimes Crowley in his human form - and sometimes as a snake, when the world was overwhelming and thoughts needed to be simplified and repressed and maybe Crowley wasn’t really Okay.

God was a mayfly, her mind gone and body long given back to the earth, but Crowley is single-use plastic, isn’t he? He’s not going anywhere, is he?

…

Fucking. Crowley has always been good at fucking. Oh, he can make you come, he can sway his hips, he can give it to you, can’t he? He can take it, can’t he? He knows how you touch yourself, and he can do it better, he knows exactly what you want. He can trails his fingers over your skin and grin when you shiver, he can dip his fingers inside you, his tongue. Nothing to worry about, really, it’s all perfectly consensual, enthusiastically consensual - unless you consider the tempting. Do you consider the tempting? Do you? But he can take it. He can bear it. He can take it, can’t he?

…

Aziraphale is a perennial, a wildflower; he keeps coming back. Lovely and hardy but maybe not as drought-resistant as he seems. Crowley likes to watch him eat, watch him move. Likes to see from all angles; assess, hair to toes, fingertip to fingertip. All present and accounted for.

They wander, post-apocalypse, post-body-switch, post-lunch. “Have you ever had an epiphany?” asks Aziraphale out of nowhere, of nothing, stopping short in front of a shop window.

“Never thought about it,” says Crowley brusquely, truthfully. What would be the point?

“After Metatron, after, after…” Aziraphale trails off, then abruptly changes tack. “I don’t think you have,” he says. “Had an epiphany.”

“No?”

“No. You don’t… deny, do you? You don’t deny yourself.” Then, seeing Crowley’s face, rushes to add, “Not that you’re self-indulgent, of course! I know you’re not. What I mean to say is that you don’t deny. You don’t live in denial. You acknowledge. Nothing can sneak up on you, so to speak.”

He thinks: _where is this coming from? Where are you coming from? Stop looking at me. Don’t stop looking at me._ He says: “I’m a demon. I’ll have you know I’m very self-indulgent.” He sways close; looms suggestively. 

“Of course you are, _very_ ,” says Aziraphale, as if humoring a child, and carefully uses one hand to cup Crowley’s cheek, presses a thumb into his cheekbone, skin on skin, soft hand to sharp face. Aziraphale hums, happily. 

As if he hasn’t unmasked Crowley with a suddenness that borders on cruelty. As if the touch doesn’t burn. As if he can’t see the panic. As if he hasn’t just called Crowley on a six thousand year bluff.

Which is… Okay. Maybe it can be Okay. Crowley forces himself to relax. To smirk. It comes easily. He’s decorative, isn’t he? He’s always known how to use that. He’s skin and bones but knows how to make the best of it, knows how to move. Knows how to draw people to him, against him. If this is how it’s going to be, he can do it, can’t he? Can’t he? This doesn’t have to be a problem.

But: “I’m not tempting you,” he says, suddenly, desperately, too-shaky, obvious. Obvious.

Aziraphale has his head cocked to one side. His hand is back in his pocket and he’s taken a step back and Crowley thinks rather more time has passed than he’d realized.

“On the contrary,” says Aziraphale finally, “allow me to tempt you.” He produces a flask from nowhere, smiling, and hands it over to Crowley. Fingers carefully not brushing together. “Will you escort me home?”

“I will, of course,” he says, and does. 

The flask is filled with sparkling water. Aziraphale doesn’t invite him inside.

…

In the early 1900’s, Crowley seduces a priest. Another priest. Downstairs loves it when he corrupts priests, pours on the accolades, surely it’s worth it, surely. After all, isn’t this the point of him?

But: he holds out a hand. Watches Father Whatshisname take it. Grip it. Watches his eyes trace Crowley’s body. “You can do with me what you will,” says Crowley slowly, sinuously, by rote, and the priest’s breathing speeds up, and it’s all so predictable, this sameness, this unending cycle of degradation, but after all, isn’t this the point of him? Isn’t it?

Later, he’s a snake. Coiled around the leg of Aziraphale’s armchair in his dusty bookshop. Aziraphale is stalking around, upstairs and down, fretting, mumbling, and it’s not until Aziraphale kneels in front of the chair to confront him that Crowley realizes the fretting is about _him_.

Oh.

“Sssorry, I can leave,” he hisses, taken aback.

“No!”

Crowley freezes.

“Don’t leave,” says Aziraphale, then, “I want you to stay.” Which is different. Crowley stares. Aziraphale’s hands flutter back and forth in front of Crowley, in frustration, or maybe sadness, and he says, “I don’t know what kind of work you’re doing, and I don’t need to know. But look at you! You’re… pale. You’re struggling.”

Crowley is offended. “I’m very sssuccessful!”

“Obviously,” says Aziraphale, like there’s no reason to doubt, like Crowley’s success was never in question. “But this isn’t good for you. Whatever it is. There must be other ways for you to stir up your trouble.” He conjures a small stack of papers, waves them around. “I have ideas! I made a list.”

“You want to help me be demonic?”

“That’s not how I would put it,” he says, but grins, laughs, til Crowley laughs too, til he feels a little lighter, til he can breathe again.

…

Maybe he’ll get another dog. Maybe a little one, this time. Just like the humans do. Get dog after dog and watch them die and die. Soak in the joy and deal with the pain, over and over and over. So very human.

…

Aziraphale shows up a week after the Incident, after the world didn’t end

“Uninvited,” observes Crowley, but allows him through the door. Of course.

“One does what one must, when one’s phone calls are ignored,” says Aziraphale coolly. He’s twirling a long-stemmed rose in his hands, between his fingers.

Crowley doesn’t offer tea. Doesn’t offer alcohol. Doesn’t ask what he’s doing here. Doesn’t want to hear it. Has been waiting millennia to hear it: _Congratulations! You have been found wanting. Again._

Aziraphale sighs, and shoves the rose at him. “This is for you,” he says.

“Oh,” says Crowley, stupidly. 

“We need to talk,” says Aziraphale.

“Ah.”

“Do you remember the child? The one you saved when in danger?”

“Which?” asks Crowley, staring at the flower. He strokes a waxy petal with one finger.

“Exactly!” cries Aziraphale, triumphantly.

“What?”

“Look,” says Aziraphale, “I’m not here to lay down any kind of ultimatum. You must understand that. Please understand. I would be quite - content - to keep going, as we are, as we always might have been without -” He gestures unsubtly upwards and down, toward heaven and hell, then lets his hands flutter to his sides. “So there’s no need to - feel any kind of obligation - I value your friendship, our partnership, above all other things-”

“Angel,” Crowley tries to interrupt, but-

“And another thing! I’ve had sex,” Aziraphale blurts out, then closes his eyes, face going red.

“Oh?” says Crowley, wishes it didn’t sting, wishes-

“It was… okay. Just once, centuries ago. You and I were friends, at the time, but I could barely allow myself to acknowledge it, and you always seemed - so far ahead, so far away, so I just-”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” says Crowley. “I…” he trails off. Stares at the rose.

“I know,” says Aziraphale, gently, quietly.

“What do you want?” asks Crowley, finally.

Aziraphale groans. “This isn’t going at all like I rehearsed,” he complains, then waves his hand impatiently, cutting through the air, and the rose in Crowley’s hand transforms into a ring. 

“Oh,” says Crowley. The ring is heavy platinum, covered in subtly etched vines. It’s beautiful.

“Or it could stay a flower,” says Aziraphale, earnestly. As if Crowley wants an out.

“You rehearsed this?” asks Crowley, smothering a smile, eyebrow raised.

Aziraphale sighs. “Will you just-!”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Oh,” he breathes out, “Oh, Crowley, darling, I’m-” Aziraphale steps toward Crowley, arms out, then stops abruptly, frozen, eyes wide.

Crowley, who will surely be savoring that _darling_ for years to come, takes a breath. Supposes he swayed slightly away without realizing. “You don’t have to be like that. I’ll give you whatever you want. Name it,” he says, recklessly, _foolishly_ , but it’s not working, Aziraphale is frowning, fluttering nervously again, backing away.

“This is what I was trying to say, before, about the… the sex,” says Aziraphale.

“I don’t want details,” says Crowley quickly, then, “who was it? No, don’t tell me. But, did I know them? Was it the-”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, doesn’t answer, gestures to the uncomfortable sofa they’ve been ignoring. Waits til Crowley settles down next to him, then takes the ring from Crowley’s hand, where he’d been unknowingly clutching it against his palm. It leaves a round, red mark behind. Crowley admires it. 

“What I wanted to say, earlier, was that maybe you could tell me what kind of touching you’re comfortable with. If any.”

How much easier it would be to run away from this conversation! To avoid giving voice to these thoughts in his head he’d locked away. But surely it would be unbearable to keep going on as he’d done, before this. He focuses in on the fading mark on his palm, says, “It’s not the touching. But there are always… expectations that come with touching.”

“Hand holding?” asks Aziraphale, “Would you like-”

“Yes. Yes. I would like. I want… that. And, and, hugging. I want.” _Lingering_ , he can’t say. _Cuddling. I want._

“I have no further expectations,” says Aziraphale, so surely that Crowley could almost, almost believe him. So Crowley holds out a hand, lets Aziraphale slide the ring on his finger, lets Aziraphale carefully put his arms around him, his skinny body, his nothingness, his everything. He puts his arms around Aziraphale in return, and he’s barely trembling at all, barely, barely.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short follow-up in which communication is still brutal but worth it.

They hold hands constantly. In the privacy of the bookshop, Aziraphale is careful, gentle, entwining their fingers with barely-there pressure, thumb caressing Crowley’s wrist. In public he’s more forceful, gripping Crowley’s hand tightly, sometimes pointedly fiddling with the ring on Crowley’s finger.

“Drawing attention to it?” Crowley asks once, amused.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says baldly, raising an eyebrow.

Crowley keeps that memory at the forefront of his mind, easily accessible; he could tell you everything about that twenty second span of time: there’s the tiny spot of red on the server’s tie, there’s the smell of scallops and paprika wafting from the kitchen, there’s the intense and shameless look of pride in Aziraphale’s eyes. That night Crowley makes small talk with a stranger just to introduce himself as Aziraphale’s husband for the first time, chasing the high of that look; he thrills to Aziraphale’s pleased smile, his quick surprised inhale, his proprietary grip on Crowley’s wrist.

…

It’s clear that Aziraphale has concluded which stretches of Crowley’s body are safe for touching: hands, wrists, a spot between bony shoulder blades on Crowley’s upper back, sometimes his upper arms in a cautious hug. It’s so much more than Crowley ever imagined he’d have; he feels greedy sometimes, something between gentle longing and self-destruction, bravery and recklessness.

“You don’t have to be so careful with me,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale goes very still, hand frozen in the air, hovering where he’d just re-shelved some leather-bound monstrosity. “My darling,” he says, “do you think I could be anything else?”

“I want,” Crowley says, as if it’s a complete thought, and maybe it is, maybe that’s all he is, _wanting_ , wanting to be something easy when he’s a miasma of complications, wanting to be something softer when he’s rock and ice.

Aziraphale sits next to him, takes his hand, pets it. “I’ve never done this before. A romantic relationship. I never…” He clears his throat. “Sometimes you scare me. Sometimes I scare myself.”

“I’ve never scared you,” Crowley says, because it’s true; if Aziraphale had any sense about feeling fear, Crowley would have fallen victim to the flaming sword millennia ago.

“You do,” he says, “you do, you’re so…” he makes a sound a frustration, hands fluttering, continues, “I couldn’t bear it if you tried to indulge me in some way that hurt you.”

It sounds like the last line of a speech Aziraphale can’t bring himself to make, but Crowley mostly understands what he means. “I wouldn’t. I’d tell you if it was too much, and we’d take a step back.”

“Would you, though?”

And Crowley doesn’t know. Not really. He shrugs.

“Can you tell me what you want?” Aziraphale asks, very gently, so gently that Crowley suddenly realizes that Aziraphale realizes how much he doesn’t say. Can’t say.

“You first,” he says, “What do you… you said you scare yourself.”

Aziraphale covers his eyes. It should be funny, but Crowley is almost breathless with how much he relates to the impulse -- with what it means to see his own fear and embarrassment mirrored back at him like this. He watches in awe as Aziraphale works up the nerve, step-by-step: uncovers his eyes, stares at the ceiling, takes a deep breath, makes and maintains laborious eye contact, speaks out despite his obvious reluctance. “I would never do it,” he says, eyes wide, preemptively reassuring, “just… it can be so _much_. I want to… show you off, but that’s not _new_ , I’ve always wanted… I’ve always wished I could…” He sighs, shakes his head. “But then, someone will look at you in a certain way, and I want to shut you away, in a little box, where no one will ever, ever look at you again. Nobody but me.”

He sounds miserable. Crowley strokes the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist with his thumb, can feel Aziraphale’s pulse racing, says, “It’s okay. I understand, I do.”

“You don’t! It’s not about protecting you, or, or keeping you feeling safe, it’s just… me. It’s just about me. How I want you to be mine.”

Crowley laughs. He can’t help it. “Do you think I don’t know you? You dragon, you hoarder, you?” He gestures to the bookshelves, the shop, the complete lack of customers. “We both know you could have had me on a shelf long ago, up on display, just for you. You could have it now. You could have it, and you don’t. I am yours. Always have been, and you’ve never. You’d never.”

Aziraphale slumps down, exhausted, and Crowley is suddenly desperate to match his bravery, starts with the easier, says, “I want a dog.”

“I like dogs,” Aziraphale says, blinking up at him.

“I want you closer, I’ve thought about. Leaning against you. While you’re reading, I want to be closer. And. And, you could kiss me, if you wanted. Now, or when I wake up, or when one of us leaves the room, or when, when someone is looking.”

“Show me,” Aziraphale says fervently, “show me how you want to be kissed.”

So he does, presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s lips, eyebrow, cheek, forehead.

Aziraphale is choked, trembling, asks, “all those places are okay?”

“Yes, yes, please.” He doesn’t try to hide his desperation, the slithering neediness of him, lets it all show, palms up, shrugging shoulders, _this is what I am, this is what you have, this is all I am._

Aziraphale kisses his lips, lingers there, nuzzles his cheek, kisses again, asks, “is this okay?”

“It’s perfect, oh.” And it is, it is.

…

The shelter employee conveniently leaves them alone to browse, and Crowley checks out each cage, greeting every pup. Aziraphale follows along, watching, until Crowley peeks into one of the lower cages to see a small black face peering out at him. Crowley pokes his fingers through the cage door and the dog sniffs him.

“She’s the one,” Aziraphale says.

“What? You’re sure?”

“Yes. I can… she loves you. She loves you so much already.”

“Oh.” He checks the tag pinned to the small door, where the name _Bella_ is scrawled. He opens the cage and she walks out sedately, looking around. She’s not a very impressive looking mutt, truth be told, but Crowley pets her head and she looks up at him adoringly. There’s a familiar twinge in the general area of his blood pumping organ. “Hello, Bella.”

“Her name is Spot,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley looks up at him skeptically. The dog is solid black.

“That’s what she wants to called!” Aziraphale insists.

“Okay! Hello, _Spot_.”

Aziraphale kneels down, pets Spot, who immediately drops to the floor at Aziraphale’s feet, belly up. Crowley knows the feeling. 

“Can we take you home with us?” Aziraphale asks, and must get the answer he wants, because he smiles, stretches to kiss Crowley, snaps his fingers. “The paperwork is complete. Home?”

“Home.”


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale seems equal parts excited and nervous to meet Anathema and Newt’s baby. He’s practically vibrating in the passenger seat of the car. “I can’t wait to hold her,” he says, “but if she cries, or sneezes, or looks like she’s going to cry or sneeze, I can hand her over to you, right?”

“Sure,” Crowley says. He’s never minded a screaming child. Likes them, actually. Has always felt a particular kinship to those small agents of chaos, those wielders of big eyes and innocence and impatience.

Aziraphale needn’t have worried, of course. Little Greta takes to him like a duck to water, quiets down like magic when she’s in his arms. Is fascinated with his curls, with his bow tie.

Anathema makes a sound of relief and indignation, but closes her eyes and leans against Newt, who sways alarmingly.

“Okay,” Crowley says, “To bed. Both of you.”

“Lunch,” Anathema says weakly, gesturing towards their small, chaotic kitchen.

“We’ll take care of it,” Crowley says firmly. “Bed.”

Newt has the good sense to nod gratefully, the good sense not to be embarrassed. “ _Thank you_ ,” he says, tugs Anathema along with him.

It’s almost idyllic, cradling a tiny newborn while Aziraphale throws together some semblance of a meal. Would put him in the mind of little Warlock, if he let it, so he doesn’t let it. _Don’t let it_. Clamps that down tight. Closes it off.

“There are sandwiches,” Aziraphale whispers, but Greta is asleep in Crowley's arms, so he doesn’t move. Doesn’t move an inch, wouldn’t move for anything. Aziraphale watches, smiling, watches like he knows, watches like he’s looking at everything he cares about, like he’s looking at everything.

And Crowley has to force back the bile, the _not-good-enough_ , the _not-normal,_ the _undeserving_. Counts Greta’s small fingers, over and over, until he can breathe. Until he can breathe again.

…

In the bookshop, Aziraphale pecks him on the lips, holds out his wrist for a return kiss. He likes wrist kisses when Crowley is wearing lipstick, says he loves the sharp print of charcoal or red or purple where it’s so visible, where he can see it. Where he can show it off. Says he loves feeling so marked. Says he loves Crowley.

Crowley presses a careful kiss to Aziraphale’s wrist, and the question flies out of his mouth before it has time to form fully in his head. “Do you mind it? That we don’t…” _That we don’t fuck. Do you mind that we don’t fuck? Am I giving you what you need? Am I what you need?_ He sighs. “Do you mind that we don’t touch more?”

“We touch most of the time we’re together,” Aziraphale says, holding up their entwined hands. He cocks his head to one side. “Do _you_ mind?”

“ _No_ , not that. I don’t mean. I don’t mean more _often_. I mean _more_. More, _more_.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen with comprehension, and he gives Crowley’s hand a squeeze. Presses his thumb to Crowley’s ring. “I don’t mind that we don’t have sex, if that’s what you mean.”

He doesn’t ask if Crowley minds, because he knows; he knows everything, knows every flinch, every frozen second of fear, of pain. Knows every swirling regret. Has listened to the words pour from him in the dark through choked sobs, one hand clutching Aziraphale’s, one hand buried in Spot’s black fur. But what does he know about Aziraphale’s thoughts? What does he know about what Aziraphale is missing?

Crowley opens his mouth. Wants to ask. Can’t ask. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Aziraphale breathes in deep, then out slowly. Once, twice. Three times. “It’s not something I need. It’s not…” He drums his fingers on the arm of the sofa.

“It’s okay,” Crowley says gently. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, it’s. I tried it, and it wasn’t… much. Wasn’t much of anything to me. It was okay. So, I tried it alone. I thought of you. I thought of the things I like about you, your body. Your hands. Your collarbones. Your eyes. I thought, since I love you, I could turn my aesthetic appreciation into… sexual appreciation. But it’s not, not like that. Not for me. I don’t hate it, but it’s… not.” He chews on his bottom lip. Closes his eyes. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

He’s trembling. Crowley runs a hand up and down his arm, tries to soothe, tries to be calming. “There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with you. My feelings aren’t hurt.”

“At the same time, if you were to want that, want sex, with someone else, I’d be…”

“Hurt?”

“Ruined. I’d be ruined.” He sounds ashamed. _Ashamed of himself_. As if it’s not exactly the same for Crowley. As if doesn’t wake up nights tear-stained, gasping through nightmares of Aziraphale wanting that type of intimacy, needing things he can’t give. As if he could bear it, _as if he could possibly bear it_. He gathers Aziraphale to him. Rubs his back. Lets Aziraphale snuffle into his neck. “You smell so good here,” he says, speaking softly against Crowley’s skin. “So much like you.” 

He should say _I love you, I love you, I love you, I love everything about you_. He should say _I’m just the same, I feel the same as you, please don’t want anyone else, please don’t ruin me_. What he says is, “Would you tell me if there was something you needed? Something you were missing?”

Aziraphale breathes in deep once more, _scenting_ , then hums. Lets his head fall back a little in thought. He always gives questions like this serious consideration, never snaps out the easy answer to avoid confrontation. Never seems to succumb to the pitfalls that consistently trip up Crowley. “There is something I’ve been thinking about,” he admits, tilting his head until he’s making eye contact with Crowley. “It’s _not_ a need, I don’t want you to think it’s some kind of requirement.”

“What is it?”

“I like how you look, when you sleep. I’ve thought about, about asking if I could try it, with you. If you’d teach me how.”

Crowley thinks about Aziraphale, curled up against him, asleep and dreaming. Peaceful. Close, so close, close and trusting and soft. “We could try that,” he says, and Aziraphale quirks him a small smile, but his hand is fluttering, his eyes twitch up, then close tight. _Nervous_. “I want to,” Crowley amends, quickly, truthfully. “I want to try it. I’d love to. I love you close. I love you.”

“There’s no obligation,” Aziraphale murmurs, and it’s about more than sleeping, isn’t it? About more than these little intimacies, these small halting stumbles forward, these lovely-terrifying moments of wide-eyed communication.

Crowley lets his head loll backward. Nudges Aziraphale’s face back to his neck. _Breath me in, keep me with you, breathe me in, breathe me in_. “Six thousand years,” he says, “and I’ve never needed any obligation to love you. To want you close. To want you closer.”

Aziraphale does breathe in, opens his mouth and presses closer and breathes, breathes. “ _Darling_ ,” he says.

“I know,” Crowley says. “I know, I know.”

…

“I’m not good at this,” complains Aziraphale.

“Nobody is good at sleeping at first,” Crowley says, and smirks. “Think about it, Greta has more sleeping experience than you do.”

Aziraphale sits up suddenly, a serious look on his face. He inches away, twists to look Crowley in the eye.

“What?” Crowley asks, heart pounding.

“Anathema phoned me today. She asked if we would consider being Greta’s godparents.”

“No,” Crowley says. “No.”

“I know. I know. I understand. I’ll tell her tomorrow.”

Aziraphale gives him a small smile, sad, and settles back down. Sad. _Sad_. Aziraphale, _sad_ , and not saying anything, no wheedling look, no secret smile.

“You want to do it, don’t you?”

Aziraphale yawns, makes a thoughtful sound. “Maybe. Mostly because I know you’d do all the work and I could do all the spoiling.”

Crowley snorts. Stretches out, rubs his feet against the cool sheets. It’s a terrible thing, to love a child. Worse still, to love a child and consider killing them; to know killing a child you love might be the best thing for the rest of humanity. He’s had his shot at godfather duty and botched it. Spectacularly. Near world-ending spectacularly botched, isn’t that enough? Shouldn’t that be the end of it? 

“It’s not that I don’t love her,” Crowley says, but Aziraphale doesn’t answer, eyes closed, breathing steady, already asleep.

…

Aziraphale is the one who makes friends at the dog park, with his smile and his fussy effusiveness, with his generosity. Sometimes a dog and its owner will trail him home without quite knowing why, stay for tea and conversation. Maybe find themselves unburdened by a struggle or two. _Miraculous_.

“No stray humans today, then?” Crowley asks, grinning.

“Not today, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says, letting Spot off her leash. She drops to the floor at Crowley’s feet, exhausted by the daily grind of howling at other dogs and eating treats. Aziraphale snuggles against Crowley's side with some massive book of poetry, and if Crowley so much as hints he’d like it, will read aloud while Crowley sips his coffee.

It’s hard to take stock of his life, now: the loving husband, the dog, the home, the friends. Some days it all feels wrong, unrealistic. Some days these things are unfathomable, only his now to be taken away later, only here to heighten his eventual pain. But not most days. Not anymore.

“We could get in touch with Warlock,” Crowley says, too loud, too abrupt in this peaceful moment. “See how he’s doing.”

Aziraphale looks up. “That’s a good idea,” he says lightly. “I’d like to see him. You could use the Instathing.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “Yeah, I will.”

Aziraphale shuts his book. “Greta. We’ll be in her life, regardless of title. I promise.”

Crowley breathes. “Yeah?”

“Yes. I think Anathema expected us to say no. I think… I think she was making a gesture.”

“It’s not that I don’t want… but I can’t, not right now, it’s…” He trails off. “I don’t…”

Aziraphale smooths a hand down Crowley’s arm. Gently, gently. “I understand. So did she. She knows, she can see. She's not Agnes, but she's smart, she sees.”

“We’ll go back this weekend. Give the proud parents another nap.

Aziraphale beams. Kisses Crowley on the cheek, the lips. “Perfect,” he says. “Perfect.”


End file.
